The Knights of Tortall and the Holy Grail
by Nyghtvision
Summary: The Tortallan crew get divine guidance and a quest to seek the Holy Grail, with striking resemblance to a plot stolen from Monty Python. Lite Fluff -- No Calories!
1. Trouble with Credits

The Knights of Tortall and the Holy Grail  
  
By Our Lady of Infinite Flamingos  
  
Caspian Nyghtvision  
  
----------------------------------------  
  
Disclaimer: (HERALD wanders in with TRUMPET. Blows TRUMPET and unrolls SCROLL.) Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. As of today, no penguins shall be allowed within the palace grounds. Be it also of note that Nyghtvision owns nothing, nada, zip, zero, zilch, and all those good things too, except for various random kinds of fowl. She doth not own Monty Python, whose plot she brazenly swipeth. She doth not own Tamora Pierce, whose characters she merrily tortureth. In fact, she doth not own much at all, and is -- (HERALD is promptly squashed by a GIANT FOOT, which NYGHTVISION doth not own.)  
  
Author Note: This is only the prologue. This is not the plot. Bear with me.  
  
=============================  
  
Prologue: Some Trouble With the Credits  
  
=============================  
  
(Dramatic music swells and mist swirls as the credits appear.)  
  
STARRING.....  
  
King Jonathan of Conte, usurping the role of............... KING ARTHUR  
  
Roger of Conte, usurping the role of........ ROGER THE SHRUBBER  
  
(Why not try a holiday in New Hampshire this year?)  
  
Raoul of Goldenlake, usurping the role of................. SIR LANCELOT  
  
(See the Old Man in the Mountain)  
  
The Goddess, playing the role of................ HERSELF  
  
(Which incidentally fell off the mountain and is now just a big pile of rocks)  
  
Daine Sarrasri, usurping the roles of............. 1ST SOLDIER WITH A KEEN INTEREST IN BIRDS, THE WITCH, SOME OTHER THINGS TOO  
  
(A rock once fell on my kid sister)  
  
Lady Knight Keladry, usurping the roles of.......... 2ND SOLDIER WITH A KEEN INTEREST IN BIRDS, DENNIS, LARGE PERSON WITH DEAD BODY, AND A FEW OTHER THINGS  
  
(No, seriously, she was trying to carve her initials in it with an electronic interspace toothbrush given to her by a respected New Hampshire dentist named Bob, who was tragically killed when a moose devoured him for sustenance)  
  
Stefan the Horse Guy, usurping the role of ........... CONCORDE (SIR LANCELOT'S TRUSTY STEED)  
  
(Don't listen to those people who say moose are herbivorous)  
  
Lady Uline, usurping the role of................... EITHER PIGLET OR WINSTON  
  
Lady Delia, usurping the role of....................EITHER WINSTON OR PIGLET  
  
(They've got great bloody slavering fangs -- wait, who are you people? What are you doing -- GAH! LET GO! You'll never take me aliiiiiiiiiiiiive!)  
  
(SACK)  
  
We apologize for the fault in the credits. Those responsible have been sacked.  
  
(Freedom of speech! I have freedom of speech! Let go of me, curse you!)  
  
(SACK)  
  
We apologize for the further fault in the credits. Those responsible for sacking those who were just sacked, have been sacked.  
  
(You're just covering up for the mooooooooose!)  
  
(SACK. Thud. Squeak. Sounds of body being dragged off. Loud splash as if something was dumped in a river.)  
  
We once again apologize for the credits, and would like to assure you that moose are herbivorous creatures, moose don't live in New England to begin with, moose are an endangered species anyway, moose are extinct, and there never was such a creature as a moose. We suggest you seek treatment as quickly as possible.  
  
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NEXT ON 'THE KNIGHTS OF TORTALL AND THE HOLY GRAIL;'  
  
A riveting discussion involving sparrows and coconuts, Bring Out Your Dead, and possibly the Constitutional Peasants if I get the time... 


	2. Fun with Sparrows and Not Quite Dead Cor...

The Knights of Tortall and the Holy Grail  
  
By Caspian Nyghtvision  
  
======================================  
  
Part Two  
  
Disclaimer: (Bruised-looking HERALD staggers up and blows squeakily on half-squashed HORN.) Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. Nyghtvision doth not own anything. Most of the dialogue doth belong to Monty Python, and the characters doth belong to Tamora Pierce. (looks up as SHADOW looms overhead) AAH! NO! NOT THE-- (Giant FOOT comes down from SKY and flattens him again. Which of course our lady Nyghtvision doth not own.)  
  
=================================  
  
From the swirling mists of legend, dramatic music played as a castle emerged --  
  
"Hold it! HOLD IT!" The music distorted and wound down to silence, and the image froze on the screen. A short woman stormed onto the set, violet eyes flashing, waving a sword around with absolutely no respect for the cameras. "Where's the person in charge here?" the Lioness snapped, looking around dangerously.  
  
The cameramen and actors cowered. As one, they stepped aside and pointed to a crouched figure in the corner. Pink feathers swirled about the small, huddled form, and it prattled obliviously to itself. Alanna the Lioness strode forward and blinked. The figure was a young woman, even shorter than herself, with chestnut hair going in all directions, who was slapping a large pink flamingo with a plastic spork for all she was worth. "Steal my coffee, will you? Freaking flamingos..." the girl chattered as she sporked the bird.  
  
Alanna coughed. When the annoyingly young director looked up, she crossed her eyes to look at the sword leveled in front of her nose. "I have heard that you are attempting a comedy. Why am I not in it?" Alanna growled, her voice like the purr of a lioness.  
  
The director blinked and consulted her script, which conveniently appeared out of nowhere. "Um, because we don't really have a part for you to... meep." The girl trailed off as the sword pressed closer to her face. "Well, actually, we don't have a Sir Robin yet..."  
  
Duke Roger dashed onto the set. "You said I could be Robin! You PROMISED!"  
  
"You're Roger the Shrubber! You can't have TWO parts!"  
  
"Daine does," the duke pointed out.  
  
"I deserve them!" a girl's voice shouted from offscreen.  
  
Owen popped up out of nowhere. "Jolly!"  
  
"Can I be Lancelot?" Alanna asked hopefully.  
  
"We've already got Lancelot." The director leafed frantically through masses of scripts and yanked out a piece of paper. "Hey. You can be..."  
  
The rest of her sentence was cut off by the National Bureau of Cliffhangers (TM) and the fic attempted to continue.  
  
--------------------------------------------  
  
Tortall. 400-something Human Era. Out of the swirling mists came the sound of hoofbeats as a noble figure trotted into view, riding an imaginary horse. Behind him galloped an older man with a coconut half in each hand, banging them together to sound like hoofbeats.  
  
The noble figure galloped up to the castle and halted. With a flourish, his servant stopped rattling the coconuts, and added a whinny for good measure.  
  
"Whoa there," the noble figure said to his imaginary horse, and shouted up to the walls. "Hark! ... Your king has come."  
  
From off screen, someone muttered, "That's not your line."  
  
"... Shut up," the noble figure hissed. He tapped his foot on the ground. "Hello? Anyone up there?"  
  
Silence, except for the mist and a faint clanking sound. Then, two figures came into view on the castle wall, adjusting their cheap prop armor and rattling their pikes. Suddenly one fell over. "Aah!"  
  
The broad-shouldered one called down to the noble figure in a husky girl's voice. "Hold on a minute... Daine's helmet fell over her eyes and she can't see." She disappeared for a moment, then both soldiers stood at attention.  
  
"Halt!" Keladry shouted out importantly. "Who goes there?"  
  
"It is I, Jonathan, king of the Tortallans."  
  
"Hee hee... turtles..." Daine snerked, trying to keep her pike straight. She fell down again. Kel ignored her, attempting to keep her dignity intact. "Who's the other one?" she shouted down.  
  
"My faithful steed..." Jon blinked and rubbed his beard, glancing thoughtfully at his servant. "... Patsy," he decided.  
  
"My name's not Patsy! I'm Wyldon, dammit, I've only served the realm for thirty years..."  
  
"King Jon and his faithful steed Patsy," the king announced over the grumblings of his 'horse.'  
  
Kel kept her face a restrained mask. "What is your business here?"  
  
"We have ridden the length and breadth of the land, seeking knights to join my court at Corus," Jon said all in one breath. When he was done, he put his hands behind his back and rocked on his feet, looking pleased with himself.  
  
"What? Ridden on a horse?" Kel demanded.  
  
"Yes..." Jon answered dubiously.  
  
"You're using coconuts!" Keladry shouted in disbelief.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You've got two empty halves of a coconut and you're bangin' them together!" Kel continued.  
  
Jon looked accusingly at Wyldon. Wyldon glared at him darkly and clopped the coconuts menacingly. "So?" Jon shrugged. "We have ridden since the snows of winter covered this land..."  
  
"Where'd you get the coconuts?" Kel asked suspiciously.  
  
Jon looked at Wyldon again. Wyldon snorted, stamped, and whinnied sulkily. "We found them."  
  
"Found them? In Tortall?! The coconut's tropical!" Kel shouted.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"This is a temperate zone!"  
  
Jon adopted a poetic stance. "The sparrow and the plover may fly south for the winter, and the penguins may seek warmer climes, yet these are not strangers to our land?"  
  
"What's that got to do with anything?"  
  
Daine popped up, adjusting her helmet, which fell over her eyes again. "Are you suggesting coconuts migrate?"  
  
Jon thought about it, rubbing his beard and staring off into space. Wyldon snorted and wandered off to graze. "They could be carried," Jon said decisively.  
  
"And this man is in charge of our country?" Kel muttered. "Ye gods." She rubbed her forehead painfully.  
  
"What, a sparrow carrying a coconut?" Daine said scornfully.   
  
"It could grip it by the husk," Jon replied.  
  
"It's not a question of WHERE he grips it, it's a simple matter of weight ratios, a five ounce bird cannot carry a one-pound coconut!"  
  
"It matters not." Jon held out his hands. "Will you go and tell your master that King Jonathan is here?"  
  
There was a slight pause. The two guards looked at him skeptically. Finally, Keladry spoke up. "Look, to maintain air-speed velocity, a sparrow has to beat its wings forty-seven times a minute, right?"  
  
"Please!" Jonathan yelled.  
  
"Am I right?" Kel persisted.  
  
"I don't know!"  
  
"Well, you should know, if you're going to force the poor bird to fetch coconuts for you."  
  
Daine jumped in. "And even if it COULD carry the coconut, why would it want to? Sparrows are smart creatures, you know, they don't waste their time lugging coconuts around for some mad king to bang together."  
  
"Look, never mind the coconuts," Jon tried to interrupt, but the two sparrow-loving guards weren't going to let him off that easily.  
  
"We can't let you go on thinking that a poor little sparrow should break its back fetching you coconuts when its time could be better spent knitting or learning how to read!"  
  
"Selfish people like you are the sole cause of illiteracy in sparrows and other small birds! Now THERE'S a weight on your conscience!"  
  
"Forget the damn sparrows! I must speak with your lord and master!" Jon screamed.  
  
"Forget the--?! Ye gods! Do you HEAR this man?"  
  
"Sparrow abuser!"  
  
"This is cruelty to animals!"  
  
"Quick, call up the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Sparrows! This man's a menace to society!"  
  
"Go fetch your own coconuts, you cruel, heartless, mean, nasty, ugly sparrow-abuser..."  
  
Disgusted, Jon beckoned to his 'horse.' Wyldon gave him a long resentful look and started banging the coconuts together again. Jon pretended to mount his imaginary horse and began to ride off into the mist.  
  
"Yeah, go away, you foul slavedriver of innocent sparrows!" Daine screamed as a parting shot. When she was sure the king was gone, she relaxed against the battlements.  
  
Kel, however, had a perturbed look on her face, and she bit her lip in thought. Suddenly she turned to the other guard. "Daine?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Supposing it was a Carthaki Sparrow?"   
  
Interested, Daine frowned deeply. "Well it's possible, but Carthaki Sparrows are non-migratory. So they couldn't bring a coconut back anyway."  
  
Kel nodded and stared off into the distance. Then she swung back to Daine. "What if two of them carried it together?"  
  
"They'd have to have it on a line..."  
  
"They could use a strand of creeper," Kel suggested.  
  
"What, held under the dorsal guiding feathers?"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
SCENE TWO  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
We now follow the plot lines to a muddy, plague-ridden, mangy village. People are crawling around, eating mud, dying, writhing, or being beaten to death by nuns with large mallets.  
  
"Hey, where's Kel?" someone hissed from offstage.  
  
"Trying to get her armor off," another offstage person answered.  
  
"She can't be doing that! We need a cart driver!" The first person muttered.  
  
There was a flurry of whispering from backstage as the two people consulted.  
  
"Him?" The second person raised their voice. "We can't use HIM! He's DEAD!"  
  
"We have to! All of our cast extras are completely plastered from that party last night!"  
  
"Well, we could always use Numair..."  
  
"He's locked himself in the bathroom again because he didn't like the way the flying purple llamas were looking at him. And Owen's been arrested for Illegal Repeated Use of the Word 'Jolly.' There aren't any other extras, we have no choice!"  
  
"Dang," the second person muttered. "You're right."  
  
"Call up the Black God and ask if we can borrow him again."  
  
A few minutes later, Alex of Tirragon stomped reluctantly onto the set, grumbling about 'five-minute resurrections' and 'I always have to play the bit-parts.' He grabbed a wheelbarrow loaded with dead bodies and wandered around the village, beating a small gong.  
  
"Bring out your dead!" Alex shouted randomly. "Bring out your dead!"  
  
Neal staggered out of a house, carrying a limp body over his shoulder. "This was supposed to be Kel's part but she says she's stuck," he gasped. Alex looked at him blankly. "... Who's Kel...?"  
  
"Never mind."  
  
"All right," Alex shrugged. "Bring out your dead!" he yelled.  
  
"Here, I've got one," Neal said, pointing at the limp body over his shoulder.  
  
"All right, that'll be six dollars."  
  
"What are dollars?"  
  
"I have no idea."  
  
"I haven't got any of those. But here, you can have this coin," Neal offered. Alex looked at it and nodded. "All right. Put him in the cart."  
  
"But I'm not dead!" the body squealed.  
  
"What?" Alex asked, confused.  
  
"Nothing, nothing. Shut up, Merric." Neal grinned sheepishly at Alex. "Well, here you go..."  
  
"I'm not quite dead yet!"  
  
"Well, look," Neal scolded. "You'll be dead in a minute. You're on your way out."  
  
"No, no, I'm starting to feel better," Merric gasped, attempting to wriggle free.  
  
"Nonsense, you're dying, you're shuffling off this mortal coil, on your way to joining the bleeding choir invisible. If I didn't have you in a deadlock you'd be pushing up daisies. You're dead, mate, you're dead. Now go on the cart." Neal attempted to shove the redhead into the wheelbarrow, but Merric clung to his shoulder.  
  
"I'm not dead!"  
  
"Here now, he says he isn't dead," Alex objected.  
  
Neal laughed nervously. "Yes he is."  
  
"No, I'm not!"  
  
"You will be soon. You're very ill," Neal told the dead body.  
  
"I'm getting better!" Merric kicked feebly.  
  
"No you're not. You'll be stone dead in a minute." Neal tried again to stuff him into the cart, but Alex held up a hand.  
  
"I can't take him like this. It's against regulations."  
  
"Oh, come on. Look at him. He's dead."   
  
"Hey, don't tell ME what a dead body looks like! You forget that I'm dead myself! Alanna killed me!" Alex argued.  
  
Neal blinked at him cluelessly.  
  
"Never mind," Alex sighed.  
  
"You're not dead either," Merric said weakly, poking his head up. Neal grabbed his head and pushed it back down.   
  
"Can you please take him?"  
  
"I don't want to go on the cart!" Merric gasped.  
  
"Oh, don't be such a baby."  
  
"I can't take him like that," Alex replied, shaking his head.  
  
"I feel fine!"  
  
"Do me a favor?" Neal wheedled.  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, can you just hang around a few minutes? He won't be long."  
  
Alex shook his head again. "I promised I'd be at Pirate's Swoop. They lost nine today."  
  
"I think I'll go for a walk..." Merric attempted.  
  
"You're not fooling anyone, you know," Neal told him. To Alex, he asked pleadingly, "Isn't there anything you can do?"  
  
The redhead on his shoulder began singing unrecognizably. "I feel happy... I feel happy..."  
  
Neal and Alex exchanged furtive looks, then looked shiftily up and down the street. Alex whipped out a club, out of nowhere, really. There was a quick bonk, and the singing abruptly stopped.  
  
Neal handed over the money. "Thanks a lot mate, I owe you one."  
  
"Well, it won't be much good, I'm dead." Alex put the money in his hip pouch. "See you Thursday."  
  
Suddenly the villagers stopped writhing and kneeled in the mud. Neal and Alex promptly bowed their heads as the sound of hoofbeats grew closer and closer. King Jonathan rode by on a magnificent imaginary steed, with Wyldon behind him, carrying all the luggage and banging his coconuts together.  
  
Neal blinked when he had passed. "Who was that?"  
  
"Must have been a king."  
  
"How do you figure that?"  
  
"Because the script said so..."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
CASPIAN NYGHTVISION STRIKES AGAIN  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Coming up next: Possibly my favorite scene in the whole movie, the Constitutional Peasants... 


	3. Constitutional Peasants

==========================================  
  
The Knights of Tortall and the Holy Grail  
  
By Caspian Nyghtvision  
  
==========================================  
  
--------------------------------------  
  
Part Three  
  
---------------------------------------  
  
DISCLAIMER: (HERALD staggers up to podium. Attempts to blow on flattened TRUMPET and fails miserably. Looks around nervously, unrolls scroll.) Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. This disclaimer is the same as before, except the GIANT FOOT will be wearing high heels. (looks up in terror) NO! (GIANT FOOT descends.)  
  
I absolutely had to use the word "antidisestablishmentarianisms" in this, even though it wasn't quite the right word. But how often to I get to use "antidisestablishmentarianisms?!" Oh, and I probably should tell you that yes, Owen pops up in every chapter to say "Jolly." He has to. And I don't know how Tamora Pierce dresses, so all of that was just conjecture.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
SCENE FOUR  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The clatter of hoofbeats rang across the land as King Jonathan rode up a hill. Behind him staggered his faithful steed Wyldon, grudgingly banging his coconuts. Jon held up his hand and paused, checking his imaginary horse. Wyldon ceased the coconuts and snorted.  
  
Jon shaded his eyes with his hand as he stared out over the land. There was a small, family-sized castle looming in the distance. A few peasants were digging listlessly in the mud nearby. Nodding to his trusty horse, King Jon rode towards them.  
  
"Old man!" Jon called out when they were within hailing distance of a strong-looking peasant, who was poking blearily at the dirt with a stick. The peasant dropped the stick, turned around, and folded muscular arms over a curvy chest.  
  
Yes... a curvy chest. Jon blinked.  
  
"Woman," Kel corrected with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"Woman," Jon winced. "Sorry. From behind you looked --"  
  
"Are. You. Insulting. My. Butt?" Kel growled, her voice rising dangerously.  
  
"No, no, no!" King Jonathan said, flustered. "It's, er, a very nice butt."  
  
"Are you harassing me?" Kel demanded.  
  
"No! No, I'm not."  
  
"And I'm not old, either! I'm in my twenties!"  
  
"Well, from a distance, you looked..."   
  
Jon trailed off as Kel looked critically at her rear end. Her head snapped up, and she glared at him.  
  
"From behind I looked like an old man? Lovely. I'm sure you're QUITE popular with the ladies."  
  
Regally, King Jon drew himself up to his full height. "Well, actually, I am. I AM king, you know!" He replied, looking down his nose in a Very Royal Manner.  
  
"King, eh? Oh, very nice. I expect you've got a palace and courtiers and nice clothes and lovely food. AND HOW DID YOU GET THAT, EH?" Kel screamed suddenly. "By exploiting the workers! By hanging on to the outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the social and economic differences in our struggling and archaic society! If there's ever going to be any--"  
  
She was interrupted by the arrival of another peasant. This one would never be mistaken for a man, not even from a distance, and not even if the viewer was legally blind. She had glossy black hair and huge brown eyes.  
  
"Keladry," Lalasa said sweetly, "There's some lovely mud down here... Oh, how d'you do?"  
  
"How do you do, good lady," King Jon said impressively. "I am Jonathan, King of the Tortallans. Can you tell me who lives in that castle over there?"  
  
Lalasa blinked. "King of the WHO?"  
  
"The Tortallans."   
  
"The Tortoises?"  
  
"The Tortallans!"  
  
"Well, it sounds like the Tortoises," Lalasa said with the tone of someone very certain of their logic.  
  
"I thought a Tortallan was a kind of pastry..." Kel mused.  
  
"No. This country is Tortall, we are all Tortallans, and I am your King," Jonathan explained.  
  
"I didn't know we had a king." Lalasa raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were an autonomous collective."  
  
"You're fooling yourself," Keladry said darkly. "We're living in a dictatorship, a self-perpetuating autocracy in which the working classes..."  
  
"Oh, there you go, bringing class into it again," sighed another peasant woman, who had come up behind them. She had black hair and a crooked nose. "You and your antidisestablishmentarianisms..."  
  
"... That's what it's all about, Thayet!" Kel retorted. "Class is the invisible divider which further serves to weaken our already crippled society!"  
  
"No, it's all way the economy is structured," Thayet countered. "If there's one thing that has to change, it's the--"  
  
Another peasant popped up randomly. "Jolly!"  
  
"Please, please good peasants, I am in haste!" Jon interrupted. "Will you tell me who lives in that castle yonder?"  
  
The peasants stopped arguing and glared at him. "No one lives there," Thayet told him.  
  
"Well, then, where does your lord live?" Jon persisted.  
  
"We don't have a lord," Lalasa responded, looking at him like he was a small repulsive creature that was clinging to her foot.  
  
"What?!"  
  
Keladry sighed. "I told you. We're an anarcho-syndicalist commune, taking it in turns to act as a sort of executive officer for the week."  
  
"Yes..." Jon said impatiently.  
  
"But the decision of that officer---" Kel went on obliviously.  
  
"Yes, I see," Jon interrupted.  
  
"---Must be ratified at a special bi-weekly meeting by a simple majority in a case of purely internal affairs---"  
  
"Be quiet!"  
  
"--but a two-thirds majority --"  
  
"Be quiet! I order you to shut up!" King Jon yelled.  
  
"Order, eh?" Lalasa demanded. "Who do you think you are?!"  
  
"I am your KING!"  
  
"Well, I didn't vote for you," Thayet said off-handedly.  
  
"You don't vote for kings!"  
  
"Well, then, how did you get to be king?"  
  
Jon struck a pose as a beam of light descended from the heavens and bathed him in its radiance. "Our Holy Lady Tamora Pierce..."  
  
"Oh, brother," Kel muttered.  
  
"... her arm clad in the purest shimmering cotton-spandex blend, held aloft the Dominion Jewel from the depths of her authorly imagination to signify that I, Jonathan, was to be your king!"  
  
The light vanished abruptly as Jon lowered his arms. He scowled at the skeptical peasants. "That is why I am your king!"  
  
"Is Neal here?" Thayet muttered. "He'd be able to deal with this one."  
  
Kel sighed. "Look, strange women sitting in chairs writing books and handing out polished stones to random characters -- that's no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not a farcical fictional ceremony."  
  
"Be quiet!" Jon shouted.  
  
"You can't expect to wield supreme executive power just because some inky-fingered tart chucked a rock at you!" Thayet snorted.  
  
"Shut up! I order you to shut up!"  
  
"So if some ill-dressed literary chick threw a random bit of pressurized carbon at ME, I'd get to be the ruler of the world?"  
  
"Be quiet, you peasants!"  
  
"If ALL random five-cent authoresses were authorized to select their basis of government by running around flinging stones at people, where would our society be? It shouldn't be allowed!"  
  
("Darn," Nyghtvision muttered, hiding a rock under her shirt. "They're onto me.")  
  
Kel continued, "I mean, if I went around saying I was an Empress just because some bookish bint lobbed a pebble at me, they'd put me away!"  
  
King Jon grabbed her by the collar. "Shut up! I ORDER you to shut up!"  
  
She looked down at him, unfazed. "Oh, NOW we see the violence inherent in the system."  
  
"Shut up!" Jon roared.  
  
A large crowd of other peasants began to grow around them, interested at the proceedings.  
  
"Come and see the violence inherent in the system!" Kel caroled. "Help, help, I'm being repressed!"  
  
"Shut up! Bloody peasant!" Jonathan became aware of all the people watching and realized that it wasn't a very kingly thing to do. "Bloody peasant." He let go of Kel's collar and pushed her over into the mud.  
  
"Oh, what a give-away. Did you see that?" Kel demanded of the other peasants.  
  
"Come on, Patsy," Jon ordered his horse.  
  
Wyldon glared at him darkly. "My NAME is WYLDON." He followed anyway, nickering resentfully and clopper-ing the coconuts together.  
  
As the scene ended, Kel was helped to her feet by several other peasants. "Did you see him repressing me? That's what I'm on about..."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
CASPIAN NYGHTVISION STRIKES AGAIN  
  
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That's probably my favorite scene in the whole movie...  
  
Anyway. I have done my duty-- two chapters a week, no less -- so you do yours... *nudge nudge point point* You know, the little review button. No use posting the rest if no one wants to read it.  
  
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V 


	4. Part four point five?

The Knights of Tortall and the Holy Grail  
  
By Nyghtvision  
  
====================================================  
  
Disclaimer: HERALD refuses to come out, claiming that he is dead. Instead I will leave you to fill it in at your leisure. I do not own Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and I do not own Tamora Pierce. However, I have the Pythons locked in my closet and Pierce in my sock drawer. Thus I have every right to maul the characters and concepts in any way I see fit. I do own Random Pyro, though.  
  
====================================================  
  
Author Note: Have skipped "Black Knight" bit as I don't think it's very funny and couldn't think of a way to do it. (Tried writing it with Yumiko and Kaddar fighting with giant plastic salad forks but it still wasn't funny.) So we move immediately to Sir Bedevere and 'Burn the Witch,' which is altogether funnier and it has Daine in it. Plus you can hear a swallow in the background -- Oooh!  
  
======================================================  
  
SCENE FIVE  
  
======================================================  
  
"Isn't it Scene Four?"   
  
"Shut up. If you want to be director then go ahead."  
  
We open the next scene in a village...   
  
...  
  
A bunch of Mithran priests wandered through the town, chanting in Latin.  
  
"Pie Iesu domine... dona eis requiem," they intoned, cracking themselves on the heads with wooden boards. "Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem." CRACK  
  
The convoy of priests passed a group of villagers who were dragging a young woman through the streets. She had wavy brown hair, blue-gray eyes, was dressed as a witch and had a turnip tied to her nose. She also looked deeply annoyed. They dragged her up to a shoddily built stagelike thing in the center of town.  
  
The short, redheaded knight on the podium looked on in interest, lifting up the visor of her helmet so she could see better. The villagers tugged their forelocks and mumbled until one of them came forward.  
  
"Sir Alanna, we have found a witch. May we burn her?" asked Ozorne hopefully.  
  
"A witch! A witch! Burn the witch!" the other villagers cheered.  
  
"How do you know she's a witch?" Alanna asked, ignoring the fact that most of the villagers (Ozorne, Alex, Blayce and Joren among others) had been killed off by the Holy Lady in various books.  
  
"She looks like one!"  
  
"Yes, she does!"  
  
"Burn the witch!"  
  
"Yay! Burn! Burn! Burn!" cheered a random pyro.  
  
"Bring her forward," Sir Alanna commanded.  
  
The villagers pushed and dragged Daine forward until she stood at the head of the crowd. "I am not a witch!" she protested. "I am not a witch! I'm a mage!"  
  
"Witch, mage, same diff," said a random villager.  
  
"Burn the witch!" Random Pyro yelled.  
  
"I'm not a witch!"  
  
"But you are dressed as one," Sir Alanna pointed out.  
  
"They dressed me up like this!" Daine cried.  
  
"We didn't, we didn't!"  
  
"This is not my nose," Daine stated, "It's a false one."  
  
Alanna pulled off the turnip and nodded. She turned back to the villagers, "Well?"  
  
"Well..."  
  
"We did do the nose," Blayce admitted.  
  
"The nose?" Alanna encouraged.  
  
"And the hat. But she is a witch!" Alex shouted.  
  
"A witch, a witch, burn the witch!" started up again. Daine rolled her eyes and sat down.  
  
"Did you dress her up like this?" Sir Alanna persisted.  
  
"Um... yes... no... a bit... yes... well, she has got a wart."  
  
"It's not a wart," Daine muttered sulkily, pulling acne medication and a compact out of her pocket. She started slathering foul-smelling cream on the 'wart.'  
  
"Why do you think she is a witch?" Sir Alanna asked.  
  
There was a brief moment of consternation among the villagers.  
  
"She turned me into a newt," Blayce shouted decisively.  
  
Alanna looked at him. "A newt?"  
  
Blayce looked down at his very un-newt-y self for some time. "I got better."  
  
Random Pyro shouted, "Burn her anyway!"  
  
The other villagers took up the chant. "Burn her, burn her, burn the witch..."  
  
"Quiet! Quiet!" Sir Alanna held up a commanding hand. The villagers fell silent. "There are other ways of telling if she is a witch."  
  
(There was a dramatic clatter of coconuts as King Jon rode into the village, followed by Wyldon-Patsy. They hung back at the edge of the crowd and watched the proceedings in interest.)  
  
"There are?" a villager responded.  
  
"Tell up."  
  
"What are they, wise Sir Alanna?"  
  
"Burn her!" shouted Random Pyro, but was quickly hushed.  
  
"Tell me, what do you do with witches?" Sir Alanna asked.  
  
The reply was unanimous, "BURN THEM!"  
  
"And what do you burn, apart from witches?" Sir Alanna continued.  
  
This threw the villagers off for a moment, and they looked around blankly. Finally a platinum blonde stuck his hand in the air and shouted, "Wood!"  
  
Sir Alanna nodded, and the platinum blonde looked pleased with himself. "So why do witches burn?"  
  
"... Because they're made of wood?" Ozorne whispered tentatively.  
  
Alanna nodded again. "Good."  
  
The peasants looked around uneasily, muttering. Finally they accepted this.  
  
"So how can we tell if she is made of wood?" Sir Alanna continued.  
  
"Make a bridge out of her!" shouted Alex.  
  
"Ah... but can you not also make bridges out of stone?"  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Yes, of course."  
  
"Umm... err."  
  
Alanna sighed and decided to hurry things along. "Does wood sink in water?"  
  
The villagers cheered up and started shouting again.  
  
"No, no, it floats!"  
  
"Tie her up!"  
  
"Throw her in the pond!"  
  
"Tie weights on her!"  
  
"To the pond!"  
  
Sir Alanna checked them. "Wait, wait. Tell me -- what also floats in water?"  
  
"Bread?"  
  
"No, no, no."  
  
"Apples?"  
  
"Basiliks?"  
  
"Black opals?"  
  
"Very small rocks?"  
  
"A duck," shouted a regal voice. The villagers all turned and beheld King Jon with awe. Sir Alanna looked up, deeply impressed.  
  
"Exactly," she stated. "So, logically..."  
  
Ozorne began to catch on. "If she... weighs the same as a duck... she's made out of wood."  
  
"And therefore?" Sir Alanna prodded.  
  
"A witch!... a duck, a duck! Fetch a duck!"  
  
"Here is a duck, Sir Alanna. Please use my duck."  
  
"George, what are you doing here?" she hissed.  
  
"Offering you a duck?"  
  
"That's not a duck, that's a turkey."  
  
"Oh." George went away.  
  
"Who has a real duck?" Sir Alanna demanded.  
  
"I've got a chicken."  
  
"Would a flamingo work?"  
  
"Burn the witch!"  
  
"Make a ladder out of her!"   
  
"No, no, it has to be a duck."  
  
"Let's go catch a duck!" The villagers took off, cheering, towards a pond in the distance.  
  
Sir Alanna sighed and decided not to tell them that while they were debating, Daine had wandered off. "Oh, well. I did want to try my theory."  
  
King Jon rode up closer and they regarded each other with admiration.  
  
"Who are you, who are so wise in the ways of science?" Sir Alanna asked prosaically.  
  
"I am Jonathan, King of the Tortallans."  
  
"My liege!" Sir Alanna drew her sword, knelt down, and presented it to him.  
  
King Jon shot Wyldon-Patsy a satisfied look. "Good Sir... er, Lady knight, will you come with me to Corus, and join our number at the Vaguely Roundish Table?"  
  
"My liege, I am honored," Alanna bowed.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
THE CHOICE IS YOURS...  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
I know, Alanna is a strange Bedevere... but she couldn't be Lancelot or Sir Robin. And we had to get her in there somewhere.  
  
I call upon you from the depths of my heart... WHO would be good as Sir Galahad the Chaste? Please let me know. The fic cannot go on without a Galahad! Also, what do you think of Roger as Sir Robin? Until next time, I remain  
  
Yrs in the Netherworld  
  
Caspian Nyghtvision 


	5. Never Piss Off A Platypus

The Knights of Tortall and the Holy Grail  
  
By Caspian Nyghtvision  
  
============================================  
  
Disclaimer: I don't feel like bothering, so instead I will say 'Oi' sixteen and a half times and leave it at that.   
  
Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. Oi. O.  
  
Sheer poetry.  
  
============================================  
  
Part Five  
  
=============================================  
  
Narrator: The wise Sir Alanna was the first to join King Jon's knights, but other illustrious names were soon to follow.  
  
Sir Raoul the Brave...  
  
Sir Neal the Chaste...  
  
Sir Keladry the Spontaneously Added Bit-Part...  
  
Sir Myles the Perpetually Watered...  
  
And Sir Roger the Not-Quite-So-Brave As Sir Raoul...  
  
Who had nearly fought the Dragon of Pirate's Swoop...  
  
Who had almost stood up to the Vicious Chicken of Corus...  
  
And who had personally wet himself at the Battle of the Immortals...  
  
And the aptly named Sir Not Appearing in this Fanfic.  
  
Together they formed a band whose names and deeds would be remembered, sniggered over, and brought out to mock at parties throughout the ages. The Knights of the Vaguely Roundish Table.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Out of the mists of the ages rode a group of noble figures, accompanied by cantering servants clattering coconuts in a very determined way. Up at the front, a short redhaired knight conversed with the proud-looking King Jon.  
  
"And that, my liege, is how we know the Black God to be a crossdresser," Sir Alanna finished.  
  
"This new learning fascinates me, Sir Alanna. Explain again how platypus bladders may be used to control fires."  
  
"Certainly, milord."  
  
Suddenly Sir Raoul stopped and pointed. "Look, my liege!"  
  
Sir Myles the Perpetually Watered blinked drunkenly and started laughing his head off.  
  
A magnificent castle stood on the crest of a hill, illuminated dramatically by the rays of the dying sun, its imposing structure only enhanced by the stirring background music played on the soundtrack that the cameraman was staggering about with.  
  
The knights ignored the cameraman as he collapsed nearby, the background music winding down to a halt.  
  
"Corus!" King Jon breathed with thankful reverence and reverent thankfullness.  
  
"Corus!"  
  
"Corus!"  
  
"It's only a model," Sir Roger added helpfully.  
  
King Jon turned and decked his cousin. "Shut up!" Turning back to his group, he intoned,  
  
"Knights, I bid you welcome to your new home. Let us ride.... to Corus!"  
  
As the awed knights began to ride to the castle, a strange sound reached their ears. Numair burst out of the palace, booting away chickens and screaming in a vaguely demented way. "Damn-- bloody-- chickens-- get out of my study! Neeagh!"  
  
Almost instantly a swarm of lovely blonde women (On loan from Mary Sue's-R-Us) leaped out of the trees, pounced on him, and dragged him off, giggling hyperactively.  
  
Sir Myles snickered and opened his third beer bottle of the day.  
  
The knights blinked in unison, then looked up as they heard singing. A troop of Riders were standing on the roof, wearing nothing but strategically placed lit, blinking Christmas tree lights. They were singing something horrendous as they chucked roof tiles at random... passersby. (Passerbys? Passersby? Bloody word. Random people who were passing by.)  
  
Meanwhile the badger god was drunkenly cornering anyone who would listen, and was slurring at length that the color of the spaceships didn't really matter, and weren't the sparkly bits pretty?  
  
Mithran priests wandered past, chanting and hitting themselves with boards.  
  
The hilarity increased.  
  
"In retrospect, it wasn't the best idea to restrain the dragon with bungee cords..."  
  
"Jolly."  
  
"On second thought, let's not go to Corus. It is a very random place."  
  
---------------------------------------------  
  
The knights turned and rode off, their pages clacking along behind with the coconuts. Suddenly they were checked by a ray of sparkling radiance, celestial choir, angels appearing, etc. on loan from Epiphanies-R-Us.  
  
"It's the Goddess!"  
  
"Jolly!"  
  
The knights all fell to their knees, except Sir Neal, who was chatting up a tree. (We think.)  
  
"JON! Jonathan, king of the Tortallans!" The Goddess announced. "Oh, stop groveling. It's sooo cliche."  
  
"Sorry, milady." Jon averted his eyes.  
  
There was a celestial boom. "And stop averting your eyes. You're like those miserable Carthakis. They're sooo depressing."  
  
Sir Myles pointed and giggled uncontrollably. He fell over, and was supported by Sir Alanna. "Hee, 'sh perky-ful lady inthe sky!"  
  
  
  
"Shut up, all of you. Now. Jon, king of the Tortallans, your Knights of the--" The Goddess paused, eyeing a sheaf of papers in her free hand. She pulled a pair of spectacles from her sleeve to glance over the script, and snickered. "Vaguely Roundish Table... shall have a task to make the world remember them an example of these dark times."  
  
"Milady?"  
  
"Yes?" She peered regally over her glasses.  
  
"You're not making any sense."  
  
"I'm a deity, mortal. Do I need to make sense?"  
  
"Um, yes, if you want us to do this for you."  
  
"Bugger. Behold!" The Goddess gestured and angels sang as an image of a golden cup appeared. "The Holy Grail!"  
  
"... What's a grail?"  
  
"Shut up, Roger."  
  
"Dude, it is obviously a cup."  
  
"What did you say?!"  
  
"It's a cup! Look at it!"  
  
"No, the whole 'dude' thing. We're knights. We don't say 'dude.'" Kel felt the need to make this point.  
  
"It's still a cup."  
  
"Ahem." The Goddess cleared her throat and eyed the debating knights over her spectacles. They attempted to stand to attention, but were quickly distracted.Sir Myles leered and fell over. Patsy-Wyldon wandered off to graze. Sir Neal picked a fight with a badger. (We think.)  
  
Sir Raoul held up his hand. "Um, what IS the Holy Grail?"  
  
"Mithros's chamber pot. Fell into the Mortal Realms as a result of a drunken quarrel with the duckmole god. Please go fetch it." Removing her spectacles, the Goddess and the Grail vanished.  
  
The singing stopped and the light faded. The knights looked at each other cluelessly.  
  
"A blessing! A blessing from the Lady!" Sir Alanna said suddenly.  
  
Motivated now, the knights fell to their knees and prayed. "Goddess be praised!"  
  
--------------------  
  
THE NEXT SCENE (Divine Realms)  
  
-------------------  
  
"Just cross your legs, Mithros," Mynoss said severely.  
  
"Pleeease, can I just use your chamber pot?"  
  
"No. Wait until the knights find your Holy Grail."  
  
"But I really have to--"  
  
"Go in the woods! There's infinite acreage of pristine idyllic woods around! You're a man! Use a tree!"  
  
"... Just make sure it's not one of those sentient ones," the Goddess smirked.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------  
  
Did you know that "Oi" is Japanese for "Hey?" I did not know that. Anyway, thanks so much for your feedback that really did help a lot. Thanks to Nip (www.fanfiction.net/profile.php?userid=281508) for suggesting Sir Myles as a character. (Now we have a coward and a drunk...) 


	6. In Which The Knights Do NOT find the Gra...

The Knights of Tortall and the Holy Grail  
  
By Caspian Nyghtvision  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Disclaimer: Light, pointless, amusing fluffy tripe. Nyghtvision hopes you like it, and urges you to review. Absolutely no calories. Tamora Pierce owns much.   
  
----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Voices of the Gods appear throughout.  
  
==========================================  
  
Part Six: In Which The Knights Do Not Find the Holy Grail, But a Swarm of Killer Chickens.  
  
===========================================  
  
The Knights of the Vaguely Roundish Table clopped, clattered, and tripped over their own armored feet ("He pushed me!" "Shut UP, Roger..." "Jolly!") as they Quested about aimlessly for the Holy Grail. Needless to say, they weren't having much luck.  
  
Because every good Quest starts out with the heroes traipsing nobly down a road, the intrepid King Jonathan had found them a road to traipse down. As they traipsed, their pages keeping up a steady coconut clatter, the noble knights kept a sharp eye out for the Holy Grail.  
  
Myles, Neal, and Neal's 'pony' Owen were having a jolly time walking on the side of the road, picking through trash that random travelers had thrown there.  
  
"Is this it?" Myles slurred for the sixth time, holding up yet another piece of trash. This time it was a battered cardboard pizza box.  
  
"No, Myles," Raoul said gently, taking it from his hands. "The Holy Grail is said to be cup-shaped. This is a pizza box from Cooper Pizzeria."  
  
"They have jolly good pizzas there!"  
  
"Shush, Owen, you're disturbing the Canon Continuity. And fix your coconuts; it's more of a one-two-THREE beat."  
  
Clop, clop, CLOP. Clop, clop, CLOP. The knights rode on.  
  
"Is this it?" Neal hoped, holding up a paper coffee cup from Maura's Diner.   
  
"Ooh, it's cup-shaped," Myles enthused.  
  
Raoul groaned and went to ride up front with Jon.  
  
After a while the knights came to a fork in the road.   
  
Myles picked it up. "Is this it?"  
  
"No, Myles. Put the fork down. You don't know WHERE it's been."  
  
====================  
  
Divine Realms  
  
====================  
  
The sounds of Mithros groaning in agony were drowned out by the sounds of the other gods snickering and carousing.  
  
All of the deities who were anybody -- and several who weren't -- were clustered around a mirror that they were using to spy on King Jon and the Knights of the Vaguely Roundish Table. The knights were providing some rich entertainment. Popcorn and ambrosia were passed around as the hilarity increased.  
  
The duckmole god was rolling on the floor; the Goddess was making snarky comments; the Green Lady had taken a break from midwifery to laugh her head off. Mynoss was wheezing, the Black God was snorting, Wavewalker was drunk, and the Graveyard Hag was taking bets.  
  
"Four to one odds, Mithros's bladder bursts before they find it."  
  
"He's a god, though. Isn't his bladder immortal?"  
  
"Well then, dearie--" the Hag clacked her dice and grinned, "It's pretty good odds."  
  
"Ooo, look, the old one won't let go of his fork!"  
  
"Think we should provide a little, you know, Divine Assistance?" The Green Lady said compassionately.   
  
"Nah, where would the fun be in that?"  
  
Mithros passed through the room, doubled over and whimpering. "Please, please, can't I use your chamber--"  
  
The reply was unanimous; every deity in the room spoke in unison. "No."  
  
"Go pee against a tree," the wolf god advised.  
  
Mithros almost wailed. "No, I have to do the other-- wait a minute, I'm the big cheese, dammit! Look, do you want to see some mighty and wrathful vengeance-wreaking?"  
  
"You can't kill us; you're not allowed to. I'll tell Mum," Shakith warned.  
  
Most of the others had turned back to watching the knights. Queenclaw the cat goddess was almost throwing a hairball from her hysterical laughter. "Oh, no, right into the branch! Whee-oo!"  
  
"Why did we ever let that silly arrogant Jon boy become King?"  
  
"Well, it's not like there was a lot of choice. It was either him or his crack-headed cousin..."  
  
In the mortal realms, said crack-headed cousin was furiously screaming, "It's in my hair! It's IN my HAIR!" and running around frantically, trying to dislodge the chicken that had got lodged in his helmet.  
  
"Those chickens of yours reproduce quite fast, lady Nyghtvision," the Goddess told the only mortal present. "Why, they're already causing native species to go extinct. And many of my priestesses have complained about the flamingos popping up in unexplainable places. Perhaps I should reccomend that you control your birds better."  
  
Nyghtvision gave her an innocent look. "But it's so much more fun this way."  
  
In the mortal realms, the knights had drawn their weapons and were bravely holding the chickens at bay. Bird after bird bombarded them, squawking viciously. Sharp beaks looked for leverage in thick armor. Sir Kel squealed and went down with a chicken ferociously harrying her throat. The other knights battled fiercely to rescue their wounded comrade. Feathers drifted lazily in the air.  
  
The Goddess raised an eyebrow. "True."  
  
"What are the odds that they make it?" the Black God whispered to the Graveyard Hag.  
  
The Hag grinned wickedly; "Not even an immortal has enough money to back the odds of that."  
  
=======================  
  
The Next Scene  
  
=======================  
  
Roger whimpered as he picked egg yolk out of his beautiful hair. "Stupid chicken."  
  
The knights trekked boldly through a deep forest.  
  
"This is boring."  
  
"No, Mynoss -- Don't!"  
  
"Don't tell me what to do..."  
  
The knights found themselves on a soft, sandy beach by a turquoise sea.  
  
"Ah, now look what you did."   
  
"I'll fix it, I'll fix it..."  
  
The knights found themselves in a vast desert. Sand stretched in all directions, as far as the eye could see.  
  
"What just happened?" King Jon asked meekly.  
  
"Divine Intervention," Alanna said wisely.  
  
"Also known as a Quickie Plot Hole, or Artistic License," Sir Raoul the Brave said quickly before anyone else could. He figured he better get a line in while he could, or Alanna would steal them all.  
  
"So where's Sir Keladry and her squire?"  
  
"Ooops."  
  
===================================================  
  
Sir Keladry the Spontaneously Added Bit-Part and her squire Tobe lay back on the sunny, white sand of the beach. Palm trees rustled overhead. The ocean whispered softly in all its blue-green magnificence.  
  
"Lady? What about the grail?" Tobe asked, putting away her armor.  
  
Kel lazily played with the fine, soft sand. "Eh. Doesn't look like we can do much about the grail, does it? The Plot Hole left us out."  
  
Tobe nodded. "Aye, it looks like the gods forgot about us for a bit. Perhaps you did someth'n offensive to them?"  
  
Sargeant Domitan approached, walking down the beach in a bathing suit with margaritas in his hands. His bathing suit was quite skimpy. The margaritas were big enough to swim in.  
  
Keladry watched him come and promptly forgot whatever response she had planned. "Ah..."  
  
=====================================================  
  
Coming Up Next: Joren's Long Lost Twin-- Dorothy Catalonia from Gundam Wing! And the French Guards Bit 


	7. Blue and Furry?

The Knights of Tortall and The Holy Grail  
  
By Caspian Nyghtvision  
  
====================================  
  
DISCLAIMER IN UNDER THIRTY SECONDS: (to be read quickly, without pausing, in one breath)  
  
Hear-ye-hear-ye-hear-ye-Lady-Nyghtvision-doth-not-own-Monty-Python-Or-Tamora-Pierce-Or-Dorothy-Catalonia-From-Gundam-Wing-(who-Really-is-an-Awful-lot-like-Joren-If-You-Think-About-it)-but-Nyghtvision-doth-own-YE-Blue-And-Furry-Drinke-of-Doome-and-most-of-the-chickens.  
  
=====================================================================================  
  
CHAPTER WARNINGS: This chapter may be unsuitable for very small children, emus, elves that live in sock drawers, and most species of freshwater barracuda. There is mention of "hyenas on mind-altering drugs," a furry blue drink with strange side effects, exactly one mention of 'hell' not counting that time, Dorothy Catalonia from Gundam Wing, knights playing strip poker, and general mayhem and lack of plot. Persons seeking a quality fic or one suitable for children under two feet tall should try something else, by me of course.   
  
Kel gets on the author's nerves a bit, but she deserves to hang out on a beach rather than traipse around in a plothole-riddled universe anyway. However the author doesn't do pair-offs in any of her fics. Nothing serious anyway. Besides, what's serious about Dom in a Speedo?  
  
=======================================================================================   
  
Meanwhile, the remaining Knights of the Vaguely Roundish Table wandered around the vast trackless desert. The author does not know why exactly it is trackless; she just assumes that deserts are. Besides, this isn't one of her "Serious" fics, where she actually worries about things like drafting and plot continuity and characterization and making sense.  
  
Eventually -- of their own accord and not because the giant invisible Hands of the Goddess were shoving them along a bit to make things more interesting, oh no, it was all of their own accord -- they discovered a castle.  
  
A rather large sandstorm had come up, and as the knights and their 'horses' were reeling around blindly, Sir Alanna the Wise discovered the castle. With her face. Rather painfully. Thankfully she was wearing her helm.  
  
She put up her hand and felt around, touching sand-worn stone. She put her face against it and sniffed it, getting sand up her nose. She licked the rock that was part of the wall and nodded thoughtfully.  
  
"Feels like a castle, tastes like a castle, smells like a castle. Hey everyone! I found a castle!"  
  
"Ah, good knight! Truly you are Sir Alanna the Wise!" King Jon said in a king-y way. The knights led their 'horses' to the wall of the castle.  
  
"Milord, we should wait here for the sand to die down," Raoul said quickly before Alanna or Myles could.  
  
"Boring."  
  
The sand stopped abruptly. Whatever particles were left hanging in the air fell rather sheepishly back to the ground.  
  
"'Allo, who iz there?" called a voice from the castle.  
  
"Wait a minute. If this is the desert, there should be Bazhir here, not..."  
  
The sentry leaned casually against the castle wall. Cream-colored hair caught the bright desert-y sunlight, turning almost white. Fair skin flushed in the hot sun; pale lashes framed desert-blue eyes.  
  
"... Joren," Neal finished with a sigh.   
  
"What's he doing here?" Roger asked Myles.  
  
"Author thinks he's amusing."  
  
"Oh. Ah."  
  
Another sentry joined the first. This one was female; long, silver-blonde hair was pulled back from her pale face, and forked dark gray eyebrows perched like boomerangs over her cold blue-gray eyes.  
  
"Who's that?"  
  
"Dorothy Catalonia," Myles replied grouchily. "Author thinks she's hilarious."  
  
Dorothy sneered down at them. "War is beautiful," she stated, then fell off the wall as her pike overbalanced. "Aah! Lawsuit!"   
  
"My long-lost cousin," Joren said proudly.  
  
"Stick with the plot!" shouted the author from the Divine Realms.   
  
"Allo, who iz eet?" Joren asked again.  
  
"Why are you talking like that?" Neal wondered.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"I am King Jonathan," the king interrupted hastily, "And these are the Knights of the Vaguely Roundish Table. Pray tell, whose castle is this, that sits so obliviously in the Bazhir desert."  
  
"This eez the castle of my long-lost relatives, zee family Catalonia."  
  
"Oh cut it out Joren," Dorothy said, arriving once again at the top of the wall. "The author's screwed with Canon Continuity this far. If she's bringing ME in, chances are she won't care if you don't sound French."  
  
King Jon, as you know, does not like being ignored. Nay, he must be worshipped at every minute. "Go and tell these Catalonias that we have been charged by the Goddess with a Sacred Quest. If they will feed us and shelter us for the night, they may join us on our Quest. Which is very Sacred."  
  
Joren and Dorothy shared a snarky look. "Well, we can ask, but I don't think they'll be very keen," Joren replied.  
  
"Yeah, we've already got one, you see," Dorothy said, and they started sniggering.  
  
"What?" King Jon asked, flabbergasted.  
  
"He says they've already got one!" Sir Alanna said in disbelief.  
  
"Are-- are you sure you've got one?" King Jon asked rather weakly.  
  
"Oh yes, it's very nice," and the platinum blonde boy and girl started giggling in the same high-pitched malicious way.  
  
"Well, u-- um, can we come up and have a look?" Jon stammered.  
  
"Of course not!!" Joren scoffed.  
  
"Well, why not?"  
  
"Well, theoretically, we're French, so we don't like you English types--" and Dorothy paused to hear something Joren whispered, "Oh, that's right, you don't have French and English here; you have Gallans and Tortallans. How pathetic. Well, in that case, we just don't like you."  
  
"What are you doing in the middle of the desert?" Neal pleaded, craving logic for some reason. Why he is craving logic in a fic proved to be beyond logic is beyond all reason. Which could probably be the basis of some kind of religion.  
  
"Mind your own business."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"And you have a funny nose."  
  
"He does! It's all ... funny."  
  
"We're funny!"  
  
"Hell, we are!" And the blondes on the wall started cackling like hyenas on mind-altering drugs.  
  
"Look, if you do not show us the Grail, we will take this castle by force!" Jonathan shouted in a magnificent example of sticking to the script.  
  
"Oh wibble off." Joren produced a silk handkerchief out of nowhere. "I blow my nose at you, descendants of very silly lowborn and highly unnoble people!"   
  
"Yes, go and boil your boils, so-called Jon King and all you silly funny-looking clanky armor commoner people." Dorothy pulled off her famous Sneer o' Death.  
  
"Thpppbbt! Thppbth! Thppth!"   
  
Joren and Dorothy started jumping up and down and giggling. It soon became apparent why they were in such unusually good moods as they passed a bottle between them. The bottle read "YE Blue and Furry Drinke of Doome -- CAUTION -- Ye Drinke Causes Blindness in Sock-Drawer Elves and Emus!"  
  
This drink reacts to certain elements of a character's personality and renders their emotional intelligence to about that of a five-year-old. It also causes them to see everything in rather pleasing shades of blue which wreaks havoc on depth perception. Dorothy fell off the wall again. Joren began sobbing about how nobody understood him and began eyeballing a nearby razor blade in a death-fic-y way.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
While the author digressed, the 'horses' of the knights shuffled about disconsolately in the hot sun.  
  
Bored, the Knights of the Vaguely Roundish Table played strip poker.   
  
Roger was losing, down to a loincloth and a rubber ducky. He was allowed to count the rubber ducky as clothing, because nobody wanted to see what lay past the loincloth. Sir Myles would have been winning, except he refused to accept armor, demanding that everyone pay his winnings in small rubber hair ties. Sir Neal, who remembered all the cards dealt, had been kicked out early in the game and was now sulking in the shade of the castle wall. Sir Raoul was down to breeches and his helmet which he stubbornly refused to stake. Sir Alanna the Wise was fully clothed and had won quite a pile of clothing, armor and underwear. Much of the underwear was feminine which was vaguely worrying.  
  
And King Jon was winning, because he was the King, and Kings can do things like that. The other knights pretended not to notice as cards magically floated out of their hands and into Jon's.  
  
Then, suddenly --   
  
THWONG--  
  
"Oh, this is more like it!"  
  
"MOOOOO--!"  
  
"Aaieee!"  
  
WHOOM! CRASH! AND THEN A NICE BIG SPLAT!  
  
A large cow landed on Claw -- Sir Roger's 'horse' -- squishing him flat. The knights stared in shock, surprise and miscellaneous bewilderment.  
  
"What a cruel thing to do," Roger said when he had got his voice back.  
  
Alanna wiped a tear. "It hadn't even been milked."  
  
The knights had barely staggered to their feet and gotten decent before they were beaten back by a hail of mattresses, watercress, farm animals and domestic poultry.   
  
"That'll show those stinking commoners," Joren said with satisfaction. The catapult stood at the ready next to him as he peered at the knights through a telescope. "Right Dorothy? Dorothy?"  
  
"Furry... blue..."  
  
"Right, knights!" King Jon shouted, drawing his sword and luckily not beheading Wyldon-Patsy. "Charge!"  
  
The Knights of the Vaguely Roundish Table rallied to their king and charged at the wall.   
  
A large mattress landed on Liam, Sir Alanna's 'horse.'   
  
"Knights! Run away! Run away!" Jon shouted, sheathing his sword and again not killing Wyldon-Patsy. Amid shouts of "Run Away!" the knights retreated, pelted by the occasional cow, goose and emu. The knights hid behind a convenient rock to assess their situation.  
  
"The sods," Raoul the Brave snarled, "I'll tear them apart."  
  
"No!" Sir Roger grabbed him by the ankles as he stood up.  
  
"I have a plan, my liege," Alanna the Wise announced.  
  
~~~  
  
Using wood which they found somewhere, the knights quickly built a large wooden effigy of the duckmole god. Around the platypus's bill they hung a sign which said, "A Present for the Taunters." They fixed convenient wooden wheels to its crudely made flippers and wheeled it up to the castle. Then the Knights of the Vaguely Roundish Table scurried back into the conveniently rocky area.  
  
After a while, Joren came out, looking beautiful, and evil, and beautiful and suspicious. Dorothy came out, quoting randomly from Gundam Wing and swinging a bottle of YE Blue and Furry. "Live strongly and passionately and violently," she announced, looking intently at her cousin's left ear. "Hurry up and start the war!"  
  
Joren nodded and snapped his fingers. A troop of servants appeared and started wheeling the wooden duckmole through the castle gates.  
  
~~~  
  
The Knights of the Vaguely Roundish Table and their 'horses' watched intently from the bush.  
  
"Now what happens?" King Jon whispered to Sir Alanna.  
  
"Well, Raoul, Myles and I wait until nightfall and then leap out of the duckmole and take them completely by surprise."  
  
King Jon blinked rapidly. "Who... who breaks out?"  
  
"Er, we... Raoul, Myles and I... er... leap out of the duckmole and..."  
  
Sir Raoul covered his eyes.  
  
"Look, if we were to build a large wooden badger..." Alanna tried again.  
  
Sir Nealan, alerted by an odd noise, looked to the battlements of the castle. There was a twang, and a look of horror on all of their faces. The wooden duckmole came catapulting back at them.  
  
"Run away! Run away!"  
  
"It's only a model," Duke Roger whispered to Myles.  
  
"Shh!"  
  
=====================================  
  
Dorothy: War cannot be fought with wooden animals, after all. People must kill each other!  
  
Caspian: I don't know why I put up with you, Doro. Anyway, dear readers, I hope you enjoyed. It was rather long, wasn't it? Which is good because I have a lot of other fics to work on and probably won't get back to this for a bit. Sorry if I haven't been replying to reviews. If you haven't been gotten to yet please don't feel bad. And I always make time for emails and beta reading.  
  
Dorothy: I'm nobility you know. I should have been queen of the world. But they didn't like my eyebrows!  
  
Caspian: That's enough of YE Blue and Furry Drinke of Doome for you. 


	8. Sir Roger Sticks With the Script and We ...

The Knights of Tortall and the Holy Grail  
  
By Caspian Nyghtvision  
  
===========================================================  
  
Disclaimer: (As performed by Terry Pratchett's DEATH) YOU MORTALS HAVE NO IDEA. COPYRIGHTS ARE MEANINGLESS. THAT BEING SAID, NYGHTVISION'S GOT NOTHING ON ME. (stalks off with scythe)   
  
Nyghtvision: Err... and let's hear it for Death! Other than that, the only thing I have to say is that this episode sticks rather faithfully by the movie script. For better or for worse, we do not know.  
  
Oh yes -- Owen's Song is mine, too. Isn't it JOLLY?  
  
============================================================  
  
"Bleeding daisies."  
  
Nyghtvision wandered into the Movie Theater of the Gods with a glazed look and a cup of something or other clasped in her protective hands. It was dark in there, and the assembled immortals hissed in annoyance as she staggered noisily around, bumping into things.  
  
"You know, it's funny she calls herself Nyghtvision. She's clumsy as hell at night," the bat goddess muttered.  
  
"Clumsy as hell in the day, too," Queenclaw purred.  
  
"True."  
  
"Sshh!" Wavewalker was trying to concentrate on the big movie screen, which was currently showing the Knights of the Vaguely Roundish Table fleeing from catapulted livestock. "This is the good part!"  
  
Meanwhile, Mithros was trying unsucessfully to get into the Restroom of the Movie Theater of the Gods. However, the other immortals had a decidedly ironic streak, developed after millenia of playing chess with mortal fate. They'd filled the whole room, toilets and all, with quick-drying cement.  
  
--------  
  
Back in Tortall, Eleni Myles (nee Cooper) had just finished her tea. Of course it was old-fashioned tea, with leaves in it, that you always swallow by accident and go around choking on for about fifteen minutes afterward.  
  
Eleni finished the last sip of tea and looked in surprise at the odd formation of leaves in the bottom of the cup. Now, although tea-leaf scrying is generally looked down upon, being the sort of thing done by weird old ladies and weird bored teenagers and not proper magic at all, it occasionally can be quite insightful.   
  
Instead of their usual formation -- a soggy, compost-looking lump that meant "The compost will be unusually good this year" -- the tea leaves were carefully arranging themselves to form a fancy-looking chalice.  
  
"Oh dear," she said. "Not the Holy Grail again."   
  
--------------------------  
  
DOCUMENTARY: PICTURE FOR SCHOOLS, PART EIGHT.  
  
(In front of an old castle, a scurfy old man with a very British suit on is talking to a camera in the time-honored, wheezing documentary fashion. He is A VERY FAMOUS HISTORIAN.)  
  
"Defeat at the desert castle seems to have utterly disheartened King Jonathan... The ferocity of the blonde taunting caught him completely by surprise, and Jonathan became convinced that a new strategy was required if the quest for the Holy Grail was to be brought to a successful conclusion. Jonathan, having consulted his closest knights, decided that they should separate, and search for the Grail individually. Now, this is what they did. No sooner---"  
  
(A KNIGHT suddenly storms into the scene and cuts the VERY FAMOUS HISTORIAN to the ground.)   
  
(After a moment, a MIDDLE-AGED LADY wearing VERY MIDDLE-AGED CLOTHING dashes out of the bushes and looks in horror at the body of her HUSBAND.)  
  
"Frank!"  
  
------------------------  
  
We now slip effortlessly into the next part...  
  
THE TALE OF SIR ROGER  
  
Through a lovely sun-dappled glade trotted a handsome knight on a magnificent imaginary steed. His hair was a dark brown that verged on black; his eyes were a nice classic Conte sapphire, and he wore an orange tunic set. On the front of his tunic, somebody (probably Nyghtvision) had carefully painted a nice heraldic chicken, posed in a position of triumphant clucking. The same noble device was painted on his shield, which was also orange, to suit his Gift. (However, since he'd been resurrected so many times, it was a paler orange than it had been. More of a watery tangerine. Tended to clash with his surroundings a bit.)  
  
Behind the noble knight trotted a small retinue of medieval musicians and Owen, the knight's page, who was singing a ballad about his master. The knight held his head high and looked very proud and firm, but as Owen kept singing, his stance deteriorated a bit.  
  
OWEN'S SONG:  
  
"Jolly brave Sir Roger  
  
Rode forth from noble Corus.  
  
He was not at all afraid to be killed (again) in jolly nasty ways  
  
Brave, jolly, brave Sir Roger.  
  
He was not in the least bit scared to be mashed into a lovely pulp  
  
Or to get into an absolutely smashing fistfight and have his head sat on  
  
To have his toenails pulled slowly out in a very jolly way  
  
And his limbs horribly hacked and mangled, jolly brave Sir Roger!  
  
Brave Sir Roger was quite jolly about the whole idea  
  
Of having his nose pecked off and his ears gnawed down by some very hungry specimen of the species "Gallus domesticus"  
  
Of burning at the stake, which would be very jolly,  
  
Or having his spine jolly well pulled out by his-"  
  
"That-- that's enough singing for now, Owen," Sir Roger said quickly. "It looks like there's nasty work afoot."  
  
Up ahead, somebody had made shish-kebab out of several armored knights. They were pinned like butterflies to a tree. Birds sang cheerfully in the branches as the armored feet swung limply in the breeze.  
  
"Ah, yes, nasty-- nasty work," Roger finished.  
  
"No duh," muttered one of the musicians.  
  
Less firmly now, Sir Roger bravely tiptoed on, until he came face to face with....  
  
The THREE-HEADED RED-HEADED KNIGHT.  
  
The left head resembled Cleon, the middle head looked like Thom, and the one on the far right was the spitting image of Merric.  
  
"Halt!" said the Three-Headed Red-Headed Knight. "Who art thou?"  
  
Owen jumped in quickly with "He is brave, brave, brave Sir Roger!"  
  
"Shut up!" Roger said frantically. "Oh, nobody really, just-just passing through..."  
  
"What do you want?" the Three-Headed Red-Headed Knight asked, all three heads speaking at once. It had done quite a bit of rehearsal lately, and was very proud of the effect.  
  
Owen saw his cue. "To fight and vanquish, brave Sir--"  
  
Sir Roger stepped on his foot. "Shut up! Nothing really, just to pass through, good sir Knight...."  
  
"I'm afraid not," said Cleon.  
  
"This is our bit of the forest," said Merric.  
  
"Find your own bit," Thom said.  
  
Roger decided a little bit of name-dropping and bluster couldn't hurt his position any. "I am Sir Roger the Chicken, Duke of Conte and Knight of the Vaguely Roundish Table," he said regally. "I seek the Holy Grail-- stand aside, and let me pass!"  
  
"Oi, there's a lot of forest," muttered the musician again. "I mean, like, acres of it. We could just go around..."  
  
"You are a knight of the Vaguely Roundish Table?" The three heads said in unison.  
  
"I am!"  
  
Cleon swore.  
  
"In that case we shall have to kill you," said Thom.  
  
"Shall I?" Merric offered.  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"What do I think?"  
  
The Three Red Heads consulted for a minute.  
  
"I think kill him," Thom said.  
  
"Oh, let's be nice to him," Cleon suggested.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
Roger chipped in tentatively, "Perhaps I could..."  
  
"Oh, quick! Get the sword out, I want to cut his head off," Thom said dismissively.  
  
"Oh, cut your own head off!" Merric muttered.  
  
"Yes, do us all a favor."  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Yapping on all the time."  
  
"Ooh, nothing at all like you, Merric. Besides, you've got bad breath."  
  
"I haven't!"  
  
"You have!"  
  
"Oh, let's just have tea and biscuits," Cleon said calmingly.  
  
"All right! All right! First we kill him, then we have tea and biscuits."  
  
"Oh, not biscuits again."  
  
"Okay, we'll skip biscuits -- can we kill him now?"  
  
The Three-Headed Red-Headed Knight realized it was alone.  
  
"He's buggered off."  
  
"So he has ! He's scarpered."  
  
There was a pause.   
  
"You know, we just stuck to the entire script for this scene?" Thom ventured.  
  
"Amazing. If it hadn't been us, it could have been the real thing," Cleon agreed.  
  
Merric wiggled. "So how do you think we get out of this costume?"  
  
----------------  
  
The musicians played a jolly tune as they scampered along behind Sir Roger.  
  
"Brave sir Roger ran away,   
  
jolly bravely ran away!"  
  
"I didn't!" Roger protested.  
  
Owen went on,  
  
"When danger reared its jolly head  
  
He bravely tucked up his skirts and fled!"  
  
"No, no, no, that's not how it--"  
  
"Yes, brave Duke Roger turned about  
  
And gallantly he chickened out  
  
Bravely taking to his feet  
  
He beat a very brave retreat  
  
Bravest of the brave Duke Roger!"  
  
(A/N: That's ripped right from the movie; it had a chicken in it!)  
  
"Shut up, Owen!"  
  
"Petrified of being dead,   
  
He bravely soiled his armor and then--"  
  
"That's not true!"  
  
They disappeared into the scenic distance. 


End file.
